"Well, I was watching a bit of tv and I got up, hit pause on the remote, and remarked out loud that I needed to go to the bathroom, like I was explaining why I needed to pause the show. Then I got a bit sad because I remembered that it was just me and the cats. So I thought I'd inject a bit of normal life into what I can only assume has been a 48 hour binge on hookers and smack."

"Aww...actually, that is kind of sweet. Wait....are you....YOU ARE PEEING RIGHT NOW, AREN'T YOU?"

"Hey, remember that song? We were in the car and it came on and I was all "This is the shittiest song I have ever heard and what the hell is it about anyway?" and you were like "This is a song about anal" and then we laughed for about five minutes solid while picturing the effort that had to go into writing a rock ballad about anal sex that actually makes it onto regular play at popular top 40 stations across North America and then we were like "Well damn, let's write a song about circle jerks because we'll definitely go platinum" and then we decided that the world had already moved past circle jerking on the radio because that is how come Nickelback gets to keep making albums and then we decided that we were going to write a song about nasophilia but then I was like "Is it too meta if we call it On The Nose?" and then we argued about what meta actually means and then you changed the station and the damn song was PLAYING ON THE OTHER STATION and we were like "This is fucking fate" and then you kept adding "about anal" to the end of each lyric? WHAT IS THE NAME OF THAT SONG? The song about anal. Do you remember?"

"*laughter blasting out of the mobile phone*"

"Hello? WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON OVER THERE?"

"That is the sound of a whole table of people hearing every word you said. Including John Salley."

"The NBA player? I'm pretty sure NBA players know what anal is and, wait, who the fuck are you that you are hanging out with basketball players? I mean, Carrot Top? Yes. I can see you randomly hanging out with Carrot Top. But John Salley? Not a chance. I am dreaming. Or you're dreaming. One of us is dreaming and since Matthew McFadyen isn't here, it's probably your dream and I'm getting the shaft."

Monday

"The cabbie taking me to the hotel tried to sell me on a happy ending massage parlour. I had lunch at Wolfgang Puck's restaurant. Spent the afternoon taking photos at Mandalay. Dinner at Batali's. Just got out of the Penn & Teller show. Solid first day."

Update: No. I am not pregnant. No. I did not steal a child. The police department should be ecstatic that the network of spies that they have trained on my vagina are on top of it. Not on top of my vagina because I don't have the proper permits for that sort of gathering. On top of my status as a parent. Which I clarify only because the number of smartasses I know that read this are numerous and I WILL NOT LET YOU HAVE THE LAST WORD.

Sunday

"I am hungry. Let's do breakfast. Wait. Breakfast was hours ago. I think it's brunch at this point. Shit, it's 2 pm. We're beyond lunch. Hot damn! We're finally aboard the dunch train like other fine sophisticated people! If you want nom-noms, you will get aboard this train as I am the conductor. Also, because I know for a fact you are allergic to the pots and pans. Have your tickets and passes ready, we are now leaving the station. Destination nom-noms. The alternative is slinner, and that is just fucking stupid."

Is the conversation I thought I had today with my husband. This is in official dispute.

"You rolled out of bed with drool down one side of your face, coughed out a lung, stared at the clock beside the bed for a few moments, mumbled something, and then you raised your arms above your head and yelled 'TEAM DUNCH' before going back to bed."

So over-the-counter medication has gotten a lot better recently or he's a dirty filthy liar. It could go either way.